


Stir Up The Beast Inside

by distantdaylight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pydia, Red Riding Hood Elements, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantdaylight/pseuds/distantdaylight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who are you?” she asks him, her mouth articulating the words without her permission. He grins, bowing his head to whisper in her ear. “I am the end,” he says softly while opening her injured palm and pressing the repaired handle hard into her wound until she has to suppress the urge to scream, “and the beginning.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stir Up The Beast Inside

**Author's Note:**

> A product of a late night insomnia and wild beast howling in the near by forrest. 
> 
> Special THANK YOU goes to my two betas, Cat and Aislynn, who polished my inefficient English and drafted some final touches.

She feels how the handle cuts into the flesh of her palm, the blood slowly filling the space in between her fingers. It feels warm, she thinks and tightens her grip even more than before. She, Lydia, a girl of seventeen with fiery hair, lifts her sight from the ground and scans the little town. It is late afternoon and the golden sun flatters the wooden huts, giving them a bronze like color. Old Greta is sweeping the dust in front of her small house, talking loudly to her even older father. She sees a few children playing in a side street. A gentle smile appears on her face. There is a unique beauty to a group of laughing kids – beauty that reminds you of how much of your own soul died away since your early years.  
She moves her eyes back to the dusty road in front of her.

In the smithy, the blacksmith’s son, Jake, helps his father to shoe a horse. Meeting her gaze, the young man lets the horse’s leg slide out of his hands. His face seems broken, his eyes showing signs of confusion. It last no more than two seconds before she smirks and looks away. They were more than close once, now they are exchanging nothing more than distant glances. His mother believes she seduced him with witchcraft.Lydia laughs at that. She liked his strong arms and the raw metallic taste when she licked his neck and pressed him against the wooden door of the smithy. She liked how her nails dug into his flesh the moment he lifted her from the ground, filled the inside of her, hammering with his member in and out, as if she were some piece of precious stone he needed to tend. But it is the act itself that lights a fire inside her, not the boy who does it. When the deed is done, she likes to push them off, whoever they are, smarten up her dress and leave. She does not see a reason in small talk and sweet kisses. Jake was different, he fell for her, and she was too selfish and starved by desire to deny herself the opportunity of making him her pleasuring toy. But he did not care for the pureness of physical pleasure, he craved a wife who would bear him children, cook him meals and kiss him on the cheek before falling asleep. She left him with broken heart, not speaking to him since, only teasing him from afar, reminding him of what he had and lost.

Two drunkards exit the local pub and with unsteady steps walk towards her. She moves away, letting them pass by. They mumble something towards her, but Lydia knows better than to listen to drunken old fools. She continues, leaving most of the houses behind her. Her gaze slides now back to the handle. She feels it slide, her hand covered in dark blood. Her eyes widen. The bucket falls on the ground, producing a rather dull noise. The water she carried all the way from the well floats on the dusty road, turning the ground into dark brown mud. Closing her eyes, she breaths in deeply, cursing herself for letting this happen. She will have to rise early tomorrow and go again. Before she lowers herself to pick up the wooden pail, she decides to examine her hand. There is a deep cut stretching across her palm from one side to another. She tries to resist the urge to touch the living flesh sticking out of the wound, but in the end her other hand wipes some of the blood in her palm away and lightly traces the groove of her injury. Her body freezes in pain, but there is also sense of excitement flowing through her blood. Suddenly, she feels more alive than she has in a long time.

There is an unfamiliar voice. “That is a deep wound.” Her head jerks up. She would have sworn there was no one around, but right now she clearly sees a man standing not far away from her. He is older than her, her mother’s age, maybe little bit younger. Smaller in height, but more than strong enough in build, wearing clothes made out of fine leather combined with a clean white shirt.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she says closing her palm as if to shield it from his inquiring look. There is something about his light blue eyes she cannot explain. They seem deep and sharp, scanning her every move and yet she feels like they are only a pretense, a cloth over something greater.

“Yes, it does,” he says, closing the distance between them until they are only inches apart. “And you enjoy it.”

She opens her mouth, but somehow she does not find the strength to disagree with him. There is a playful smirk on his face and she feels defeated, conquered almost, while at the same time her hand keeps a steady pulse, reminding her of her fast-beating heart.

The man lowers himself elegantly to pick up the bucket, examining the handle. She is paralyzed, unable to move her eyes away from him. Something is drawing her towards him. She watches his fingers move across the metal part of the bucket handle. The water she spilled on the ground washed her blood down, leaving the metal clean and shiny. He cuts his finger on the sharp spot, where she cut her palm. His mouth curves into a something resembling a private smile, his eyes returning to her for a short moment before he puts the injured finger into his mouth and sucks on the fluid. She feels her jaw tighten, her heart races and yet it seems that the time has stopped. There is silence. The only noise she hears is the pounding of her own heart, pumping the blood into her palm. He absently rips the metal piece from the handle and throws it away, his eyes never leaving hers. She swallows.

“Who are you?” she asks him, her mouth articulating the words without her permission. He grins, bowing his head to whisper in her ear.

  
“I am the end,” he says softly while opening her injured palm and pressing the repaired handle hard into her wound until she has to suppress the urge to scream, “and the beginning.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She wakes up and she knows she will see him again today. It is nothing more than a feeling - an unexplainable and untouchable sensation that seems to slowly overwhelm her mind and body. Lydia believes it with incomprehensible certainty. He finds her more often than not nowadays. No matter where she goes, what she does, he seems to find her. He is like a ghost, an untouchable enigma that hides in the darkest corners and waits just to emerge from the depths of the void. He feels like poison, slowly spreading through her body, while she desperately tries to swallow even more of him. She would choke on his unfathomable presence and die before the poison ever reached her heart.

She gets up, slowly stretching her limbs and letting her red hair fall loose down her shoulders. The pink light of early sunrise falls into the room as she moves towards the dusty window. The scar in her palm receives an unusual tint. It healed well, she thinks and yet in this light her hand looks like a piece of cut and overcooked meat. Absently, she forms a tight fist and her eyes close, remembering how he pressed the handle deep into her wound. She remembers how she bit her tongue to silence her scream and how she tasted her own blood in her mouth. She remembers how she stared at the wooding ceiling during the very first sleepless night and how she smiled to herself when she thought she could see the stars through the timber roof. She reminds herself how she walked to the town next morning, desperate to find him, to be near him. She knows better now. It is him who seeks her out. She feels his presence before she sees him - an occurrence she does not try to explain.

She remembers the second time they met. She remembers how he came close to her, reaching for her hand to examine the neat stitches in her palm. She was angry with him, despising him for letting her wait so long. She wanted to slap his arrogant face and scratch her way through his skin just to see if he was made of flesh like she was. In the end, she smiled with only a hint of irritation and asked him about what he was doing in town, hoping she would eventually collect herself enough to make some sort of a pact with him. Even now she still does not realize that you cannot make a pact with the devil - the devil makes a pact with you.

“I make drawings,” he said back then, walking beside her.

Her eyes followed his every move, enjoying the sight of his broad chest moving up and down in regular intervals. “What kind of drawings?”

“Of land,” he replied eyeing her from the side, watching her watching him.

She wished she could be at ease with him, she wished she could flirt with him and charm him just like she charmed all the others, but she could not. Her body was burning with desire, but numb, her mind sharp, but mouth mute. “You are a land surveyor, then,” she managed to say in the end, suddenly looking in front of her rather than at his handsome profile.

He nodded and the corner of her eye caught a little smirk on his face. “Clever girl.”

She was pleased and upset at his arrogance, both at the same time. She wanted to play his comment down, but even though she could think of dozens of things to say, she stayed silent. One look into his eyes made her realize that he was not like the others; he burned brighter than she ever did.

She remembers how she gradually seemed to have grown accustomed to his imminent proximity; how their walks grew longer, their conversation richer. How they talked about his measurements and how he explained to her how he uses the constellations to calculate the exact location. She remembers how she told him about her love for the surrounding forest and showed him all the little roads hidden under the dark old trees no one seemed to use anymore. She can still feel his hand in hers, when he took her to the crystal streams lit in the soft blue light of the deep woods, where the ice cool water flows and where herbs grow that can either heal or kill.

But she also remembers him teasing her and that mostly ruthlessly so, laughing at her and torturing her with his elaborated riddles and mind games. She knows how he likes to deliberately rile her up, with clever words and light, unexpected touches until her blood rushes through her veins and her heart feels like it is being boiled in her own gore and then how he seems to always toss her away, like a piece of used goods. She can still hear his voice whispering his name into her ear before he brushed his nose along her cheek and left her in the middle of the deep woods.

“Peter Hale,” he said and she closed her eyes and enjoyed the short contact of their skin.

She wondered if she grew tired of him, would he just surrender to her spell and fuck her. She laid wake at night whispering his name to the pillow and manipulating her hand in between her legs until she had to bite into her on arm to stop from screaming, but he seemed cold and with every touch they exchanged, even more distant, even more untouchable. Always calculating. Playing with her like a pawn on a chessboard, a piece he is always ready to sacrifice for some greater goal but once. There was a time she met Jack’s gaze, her mouth forming an almost spontaneous and playful smirk and he seemed to have lost himself momentarily. There was a low growl, her eyes moving towards the source of the inhuman sound. She met the man, whose name she has been screaming at star lit nights. He was standing at the opposite side of the street, watching her like a wild beast would do. His face crammed in an unexplainable grimace of hurt and fury, his eyes emitting an unnatural glow in the color of fresh blood.

She remembers all of it, every word, every gaze and every touch. Her heart keeps a steady beat now though, her eyes slowly returning to the horizon. Today, something tells her. It will happen today.

  
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“You have to go to your grandmother today,” her mother says, holding a mug with fresh milk in her hands. It seems to be her turn to look out of the window now. “It’s her birthday,” she adds absently. Lydia smiles and nods. She stand up from the table and gives her mother a gentle hug.

“I know, Mom. I never forget about my grandmother.” Her mother sighs, a shadow lingering over her face. She thinks of her dad, Lydia knows, and kisses her mother’s cheek. It must have been nearly ten years ago, when she was listening to her parents’ fight behind the closed door. Eavesdropping, a bad habit to have, but Lydia always wanted to know more than she was supposed to. She can still hear her father’s furious voice along with her mother’s nervous steps.

“You don’t understand, she took the bite again!”

“What she did was her doing and hers alone. What about the children, Kai? They are innocent; some of them aren’t even of age.”

“No one in that house is innocent. They are a pack … no! Worse. They’re a clan. They are drunk on power and they want more. If a dog bites a child you go and get rid of it, because you don’t trust it anymore. They are beasts. I can’t just let it go. I need to tell them, I need to protect the people of this town.” The door slammed and Lydia remembers how she hugged her knees, listening to her mother’s silent crying. It was unusual for her parents to argue and even more so for her mother to cry.

A week later, there was a fire at the other side of the town. She can still see the orange glow on the horizon. Her mother sat at the table, repairing her father’s trousers. She said her father went to help to help put out the fire and Lydia felt proud to be a daughter of such a brave man. In the morning, her mother hugged her tight and told her that her father died while rescuing some of the children from the house. Her mother cried, pressing her little body against hers. The next day, her grandmother came to visit them from her little cottage in the middle of the forest. They buried her father together and the two grown women told her to play outside afterwards, saying they had something important to discuss together. For once, Lydia did not follow them. Looking back, she wondered why. It seemed like the thought never even crossed her mind. When the sun touched the horizon, the grandmother she used to visit every few days in the forest, told her, she wouldn’t be able to see her anymore – only once a year, on her birthday. Her mother nor her grandmother seemed to care enough to tell her why.

She dresses in her favorite red cape and sets off. Wicker basket in her hand, she follows the well-known path. The forest is still fresh in the morning. The sun shines through the leaves and seem to give the green grass a yellow touch. She carries what she always does: a homemade chocolate cake, a bottle of wine and some herbs her mother knows her grandmother uses to make tea. The road under her feet is soft and the air seems to be filled with cool water. Soon when she enters the deeper parts and the light turns from the bright green to darker colors, Lydia feels a familiar presence. She smiles to herself, slowly continuing in her walk. It doesn’t take long before she hears cracking wood and sees his nicely formed body emerge from behind a tree.

“Mapping the forest, again?” she asks without preface.

“That’s what they pay me for.” His voice is low and smooth, as if it became part of the omnipresent shadows. “I see you are going to visit the old lady.”

Lydia nods and resumes her walk, her eyes searching for the best way to move through the branches. He follows her. “The old lady is my grandmother.”

“I know,” he says and helps her to get through the brushwood.

She does not ask how. She knows she would not receive a real answer.

“I would like to take some measurements of her house, if she would let me,” he continues after a moment of silence.

“Did you ask her?”

“Not yet, I feel like with you there I will have a better chance to charm her.”

Lydia laughs at that. She loves her grandmother, but there can hardly be a person who is less likely to be charmed. Even by him. “I will have a word with her.”

“Good,” he says, his head moving to her profile. “Thank you, Lydia,” he says, observing her red cape and calculating the differences between her fire-like hair and the redness of the wool.  
She looks at him. His voice is softer then usual she thinks. On the other hand, he never asked her for a favor before. She is pleased. Maybe he will melt after all.  
“Why don’t you visit her more often?” He asks suddenly.

Lydia shrugs. This is not a topic she likes to talk about, maybe because she does not really have the answer herself. “I am not allowed to, not since my father died,” she says finally, knowing how pathetic and childish it sounds.

He nods thoughtfully, his face showing some sort of a sudden realization.

“What,” she asks.

He shakes his head as to win some time to think of an answer. “Nothing … It’s rather strange, though isn’t it? Old lady, living in the forest by herself, never leaving.”

It's not the first time people asked her about her grandmother. “She says she lives of the forest,” she explains. “She knows every stream and every herb. She knows where to find wild animals, where they sleep and pasture. She feeds them and eats them. The only one who sometimes visits her is the old huntsman, but she never talks about him.”

He nods again, offering her his hand when she stumbles over little branches, not letting go even after Lydia regains her stability. His fingers entwine into hers and her heart immediately gains a faster beat.

“I heard she is a witch,” he says as a matter of fact, while taking the lead, his hand still in hers.

Lydia laughs. Again, she has heard that story, too. “Of course,” she says mockingly, suddenly drunk on his touch. “She boils fluorescent potions in the middle of her hut and recites spells when the moon is round.”

“You would be surprised,” he says. There is an amusement in his voice, but he does not laugh.

“Are you scared, Peter?” she asks to tease him, her body showing signs of excitement. Her hand in his begins to sweat and with her every step her body seems to beat faster. Her mind is uncharacteristically relaxed.

“Oh Lydia, one old witch cannot scare me.” There is sincerity in his tone which makes her wonder if he really believes all the nonsense they say in town.

They walk in silence. He leads her through the dense, dark forest, breaking dry, dead branches to make pass for them. The light that was yellow and fresh when she first entered is blue and gloomy now. She is surprised as his pace comes to sudden halt. She looks up, the little cottage, old and fragile, is in front of them. It seems impossible to explain how they managed to get there so fast. He turns around, his eyes scanning her face. There is coldness all around her and yet her body is on fire, every vein lighting with the simple touch of his light blue eyes. She swallows, his gaze following her larynx, moving down and up again. He smiles a little, tracing the line on her neck with his thumb. His eyes touch her lips and he closes the distance between them, pressing her against him, almost violently. His teeth bite lightly into her lower lip. A low moan escapes from her mouth, while it curves into a barley visible smile; this is a game she knows how to play. She traces his upper lip with her tongue and opens her mouth for him to enter it. She can feel his body on hers, his hand tracing her pulse on her neck, the other grabbing her rump. Their tongues entangle as if they did this thousand times before, her hand drowns in his hair. He tastes like the dark forest around them and she wants more of him. She wants him to take the lead, lay her on the ground and take her here and now. She does not care if her grandmother will see them. The heat of her body is unsustainable. She can feel her blood boiling in her veins and his member growing hard against her thigh.

“I want you,” she says almost inaudibly into his ear when he begins to suck on her neck. “I want you now.” She hears something between a growl and a laugh.

He bites her ear. “There will be enough time for that.” He brushes his nose against her cheek and suddenly takes one step away from her. In a second he looks composed. As if he never touched her at all. “Business comes first.”

She fights the urge to take a step towards him. He cannot do this to her. Why is he doing this to her? “Let’s go then,” she says in the end, accepting her defeat. He takes her hand again. It’s a firm grip and she smiles and buries her nails into his hand.

Her grandmother freezes when she sees them enter. Lydia feels how he lets go of her hand and absently takes a step away from her. Not too far, but she can immediately sense the loss of his warmth. The room is clean and unnaturally filled with bright light. The figure of her grandmother reminds her more of a shadow – her body being rather an absence of matter than a form of its own right.

“Grandmother, are you all right?” she asks, her face fills with concern.

To her surprise, the old gray woman laughs a little and slowly stands up from behind the table. Her movements slow and stiff.

“I see you brought an angry wolf into my house,” she says.

“Wolf?” There is a dark laugh coming from behind her. She freezes, her eyes locked onto her grandmother’s, before she slowly turns her head to face the man she brought with her. He is few feet away from her now, his face crowded with a devilish smile. His eyes are glowing red.

Lydia remembers seeing them glow this way before. Blood red. Back then, she though she dreamt it. She is not dreaming now.

She wants to scream, but there is no sound forming in her mouth.

“What do you want, beast?” the old lady asks in an unexpectedly steady tone.

“You know what I want.”

Lydia feels paralyzed, unable to say a word.

Her grandmother’s eyes seem to pierce through the man’s skin. “I know you. You are one of the Hales, aren’t you?” There is no question. She knows him.

Lydia sees the wolf nod. She composes herself. “What is going on? Grandmother? Peter?” Her voice is weak, her body shakes; why are his eyes glowing? Why does her grandmother call him a wolf?

Peter smiles a little and his eyes turn to her. He looks at her as if she were a marble statue: beautiful, but lifeless. “Tell her, witch. She deserves to know the truth,” he says finally.

There is silence.

“Tell her!” He howls. The intensity of the noise makes Lydia tremble. The fragile bearing of her grandmother’s posture shakes as well, her eyes swiftly turning to the floor. When she starts to speak, Lydia thinks she can hear the fear in her voice.

“Lydia, your mother wanted to spare you all of this. She wanted you to … she wanted you to be human.” Lydia feels how he moves close to her. From the corner of her eyes, she sees his long claws stretching on his hands. She shakes her head, taking deep but short breaths. She does not understand, she wants to run but her legs cannot move, she wants to scream but her mouth won’t open. Maybe it’s just a nightmare. She has had vivid dreams before.

“You are a witch, Lydia,” her grandmother says.

She chokes on air. “I am a what?” She feels how his clawed hand caresses her arm. The sudden tenderness startles her, but she has no strength to move away.

Her grandmother looks on the floor again. She seems to be weighing her words. “It runs in the family. It’s usually the first-born daughter in every generation, but as you know I never had a daughter, so your father became a male witch. Male witches are usually weaker than the female ones. Your father was no exception, but he had the strong sense for morality and protection of humans. Sometimes I even thought he thought of himself as human. But witches aren’t the only supernatural beings. Most of what you've heard of, Lydia, is based on truth. There is dark magic as well as creatures who drink human blood and shape shift.”

There is a moment of silence, before her eyes turn to Peter. “The man behind you is a werewolf. Werewolves are quite common. They live in packs, or as lone wolves. Just as witches, they can be born wolves, or become ones. This one … was born a wolf.”

Lydia swallows, wishing none of this had happened. She does not know what to believe any more. All her life, they told her there was no truth in the old legends and myths and now her own grandmother tells her she is a witch. She feels the warm of Peter’s breath on her neck and shivers. He came here to kill her, she realizes.  
He came here to kill her grandmother and she held his hand.

“There was a clan. The Hales,” her grandmother continues. “They lived on the other side the town. This wolf’s sister was the clan’s alpha. An alpha is a leader of a pack. She was very powerful, one of the few who could fully shift into a wolf, but she enjoyed her power way too much and in the end she bit an innocent - a young human boy, who never wished to become a werewolf.” Her grandmother stops and looks shortly at Peter, who seems to stand even closer to her now. When you are bitten by a werewolf, you either turn or die, there is no middle ground – unless you are some other supernatural being. As a witch, you are immune, Lydia. You will never turn, but you can still die.”

Lydia shivers. She does not need to ask what happened to the boy. He died. They killed a child, but there is no time to think about it now.

“White witches either isolate themselves, or dedicate their life to protect humans. They help them heal their wounds and cast spells to protect their cities. They can learn to control the weather and help people to prosper. Your father believed that when Talia, the Hale alpha, took the bite, her clan became a threat to the humans and because even two witches do not stand a chance against a powerful pack of werewolves, he informed the hunters.”

Lydia feels Peter lean in and whisper in her ear. His voice deep and calm.“ The hunters, sweetheart, are corrupt humans, who hunt werewolves for money and fame. They are assassins of the highest rate. They don’t care who they kill as long as it has claws.” Her grandmother swallows and Lydia sees a small nod. She cannot figure out if that nod was a sign of agreement with the wolf or if the small gesture was meant for her as a private reassurance.

“Your father called them and they came. They burned the Hale mansion down, killing not only the alpha, but also her cubs and we helped them. Your father and I cast spells on the house, so the fire would not be put out until everyone inside burned to death. We thought everyone died, but apparently at least one of the pack survived.” Lydia can almost see the red glow of Peter’s gaze casting a enflamed light on the shadowy figure. “And he has became an alpha of his own.”

There is a moment of silence before her grandmother asks, her eyes locked on to Peter’s. “How did you get away?”

He laughs, taking a step away from Lydia, standing in between the two women now. “You are not the only one who can read a spell out of a book a book, witch.” Her grandmother does not say anything, instead she turns to Lydia and now there is visible fear in her eyes. The last spot of her defiance begins to tremble away.

“You are a witch, Lydia, but your mother is just a human. After your father’s death, I tried to convince your mother, that it would be better if I raised you, but she didn’t want you to become a witch. She was afraid for your life, so she forbade me to see you more often than once a year. But people don’t choose their paths, Lydia. You were born a witch and you will die as one and the wolf can smell it in your blood.” She turns back to Peter. “That’s how you found her, didn’t you? She smells sweeter than others.”

Peter laughs again and licks his lips. “Sweeter than you could believe.”

She sees the old woman swallow. “Lydia, he used you to get to me. There is a spell that would prevent him from entering the house, but you wanted him here and you held his hand and so you managed to break the spell without even knowing it. You will see him get his revenge today, Lydia. You will see him rip me apart and drink my blood and you will despise him, but for some reason, he won’t let you go.” Her grandmother, finding the lasts bits of her strength, meets the wolf’s eyes. “Wolves are possessive beasts. He wants you, your body and soul. Your smell charmed him, Lydia, and eventually you will get drunk on his raw, beastly love and give in. I can see it in both of your eyes. You are bound to each other, but do not trust him. Otherwise, he will make a black witch out of you.”

Lydia sees how the wolf slowly moves towards her grandmother, his body already partly transformed.

“He will make you mate a demon otherwise and use your powers for his benefit. You have a strong gift, Lydia, you can--” Lydia steps back and screams for the first time. She screams of horror until her lungs hurt; until she is breathless and falls to the ground. The basket she was holding in one of her hands until then, swiftly follows her. She sees how the wolf rips her grandmothers throat out, her veins in his claws and then bites her whole head off. She watches how bits of her grandmother’s neck fall from his teeth. The blood from her open wound sprays in all directions. She sees Peter’s claws immerse into her grandmother’s body and rip it apart, her inner organs dropping on the ground. Lydia is on her knees, screaming and choking on her tears.

“STOP IT!” she yells. “JUST stop it.” He buries his mouth deeper into her grandmother’s still shaking body and drinks her blood, fresh and warm. In the end, he lets the rest of her body fall on the floor and slowly walks back to sit next to the crying girl. Lydia puts her hands over eyes refusing to see the bloody remains lying on the floor. She feels his hand on her shoulder. Her heart races, her body showing all symptoms of fear. There is a strong smell of iron everywhere. She feels like someone put her into an oven with only jugs of blood to cool her.

“Do you hate me?” he asks in a concerned tone and suddenly she thinks she might laugh. The hand on her shoulder caresses her hair. She can feel the tacky fluid on his hand slowly drop onto her neck; her body too weak to move away, her mind too confused to lie.

A nod.

“Do you understand?”

Another nod.

“Will you come with me?”

Silence.


End file.
